


crevices

by cedarwoods



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot Collection, Post-Finale, Root is Alive, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarwoods/pseuds/cedarwoods
Summary: Prompt meme#58: "I'd die for you. Of course, I'd haunt you in the afterlife, but really, it's the thought that counts." Prompted by anonymous.





	1. over the edge

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt meme](http://ariyah-v.tumblr.com/post/162362619809/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) #58: "I'd die for you. Of course, I'd haunt you in the afterlife, but really, it's the thought that counts." Prompted by anonymous.

Your hands clench as you watch her stumble again, her delicate frame swaying in the wind like a lonely leaf on an aspen. You lean forward, driven by the need to protect her, but there is nothing that you can do. You seethe in silence.

Soft hands slowly slide down your bare arms and warm breath washes over your neck. Root has apparently chosen to sneak up on you, her bunny slippers muffling her footsteps.

The _audacity_.

When you fail to acknowledge her affections, she stops nuzzling your cheek and stiffens as she notices the archived footage that has been playing in a loop on your laptop screen for the past hour – evidence of the time that Root had defied her god in the name of finding you.

Evidence of Root’s batshit insanity.

“Sameen…”

“Why.” Your voice, though steady as always, sounds like a distant echo in your ears.

There’s a pause as Root considers your question, tapping ....- .- ..-. against your shoulder. Whether the act is unconscious or a deliberate effort to pacify you, you are not sure.

“I’d die for you,” she murmurs at last in the conch of your ear. “Of course, I’d haunt you in the afterlife, but really, it’s the thought that counts.”

Her attempt at lightening the mood falls flat, however. You frown as you remember how you thought she’d departed this world, leaving you with only her voice and fragments of dream-like memories.

Root cups your face. “I’m sorry Sam.” She lowers her voice an octave and promisingly adds, “You can punish me if you want.”

You shove her away. “Bedroom. Now.”

“I love it when you get militant,” Root sing-songs. She leaves a trail of clothing behind her as she makes her way to your bed.

You produce her favourite pair of handcuffs from the drawer. Her pupils are blown already, and you haven’t even touched her yet.

_Clamp._ Her breath hitches. “No more dramatics.” _Clamp._ You poke the scar on her chest. “Leave the protecting to me.”

“As you wish,” she says, smirking at her own joke. It devolves into a moan as your teeth split her lower lip.

You pull away infinitesimally, your blood-stained mouth bared in a feral grin mere millimeters away from hers. “And Root?”

She licks her lips and stares up at you, her dark eyes glimmering with intent.  

“No sex for you for a week.”

And with that, you slip away. You smirk at the aghast expression on her face, reflected on the glass encasing of your built-in bookshelf, as you close the bedroom door, leaving her naked and handcuffed to the headboard.

The Machine informs you that there is an 87.4% chance that she will slip out of her restraints in approximately 3 minutes, and that there is an 93.6% chance that you will end up having sex anyway in a few hours. But Root doesn’t need to know that.


	2. focal point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt meme](http://ariyah-v.tumblr.com/post/162362619809/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) #65: "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you." Prompted by pota-totoo, adelaides, and anonymous.

_And what is love if not being seen?_

*

The woman in the mirror is a shell of her former self: haggard, frail, unkempt. Beneath her eyes are shadows that resemble bruises, their purple hue in sharp contrast with the gauntness of her face.

She is broken. Broken –

Shards of shattered glass, flecked crimson with blood, rain down on the hardwood floor, and with a thunderous crash, the ornate mirror frame follows suit.

“Sameen?!” Root rushes into the living room at the cacophony.

“I...I didn’t mean to…”

But there are no traces of judgment on Root’s face as she takes in the sight before her. Blinking away her initial shock, she dons a mask of calm. “Never much liked that mirror anyway,” she says.

For a woman prone to dramatics, this response is rather unexpected. That’s the thing about Root though – she’s unpredictable.

Cautiously, she steps closer, her ridiculous bunny slippers protecting her bare feet. Her hand feels soft and sure as she pries away a lone shard, letting it fall to the ground with its brethren, and gazes with consternation at the deep gash that it has left behind.

“Looks like it’s my turn to play doctor,” she murmurs.

She slides open the surface of the wooden coffee table and retrieves a first-aid kit – one of many that she has stashed in the safehouse – from its depths. The alcohol stings, but Root is exceedingly gentle as she dabs at and bandages the wound. She pauses when she notices another scar, now a thin white line, beside it. “I’ve never noticed this one before. What happened here?” she asks as she caresses it.

“Same thing that happened just now.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t say anything further, but her lower lip quivers almost imperceptibly.

There are cracks in her veneer too.

Her fingers linger against the scar for longer than necessary, but the loss as she pulls away is devastating.

“What do you still see in me, Root?”

The shards on the floor seem to reflect each other, forming an infinite mirror of sorts – or multiple distorted dimensions – and trapping the haunted woman inside them.

“Sameen look at me.”

Dark, hollow eyes reluctantly meet warm, honey-coloured ones. Root’s gaze is so tender, so loving, that it is nearly impossible not to melt into her.

“Like I said, I’ve read your file. Added some notes of my own to it over the years. And I’m kind of a big fan,” she huffs, half-chuckling, half-sobbing. “What do I see in you? I see the bravest, most beautiful, resilient and loyal person I know. I see the woman I’ve dreamed about for months – the woman who sacrificed herself to save me. I see the woman who outwitted a god over 7000 times and never broke.” She takes a deep breath and wipes away the tears now spilling in earnest down her cheeks. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, Sameen. I really do.”

She stands abruptly then, not waiting for a reply, and yelps a little as she tumbles back onto the couch. Her lips taste like mint and apples and _home_.

*

Sweeping away the glass debris and covering up the remaining mirrors later on is liberating, but meeting Root’s steadying gaze is more so. There is no “woman in the mirror” anymore: there is only a Sameen Shaw, with Root as a focal point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try using a null POV here to convey the idea of Shaw's loss of her sense of self. I probably won't ever experiment with it again. It was very challenging.


	3. scars to your beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt meme](http://ariyah-v.tumblr.com/post/162362619809/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) #70 - "You're so beautiful." Requested by anonymous. I've also combined this with a [#ShootEverAfter](http://ariyah-v.tumblr.com/post/163447768769/does-this-mean-shooteverafter-is-not-happening) prompt. The event was supposed to take place today.

There is a strange satisfaction to be gleaned from disparate objects that somehow fit perfectly together. Shaw recalls, for instance, the faint twinge of delight she felt as child whenever she slid Baba’s special gold Mohur Ashrafi - Nader Afshar coin from the mid-1100s – one of the few things he’d managed to keep as he fled Iran – across the wooden dining table and watched it snuggle neatly into a little hole in the middle. She would trace circles around the coin, right at the edge where metal melded into wood, soothed by their union.

She wondered why it made her feel anything at all.

Baba chuckled when little Sameen asked him one lazy afternoon. He scooped her into his arms easily and propped her on his lap. Shaw’s memories are hazy now, but she still remembers the way his breath lightly tickled her neck; the way sunlight dappled her legs, mottled with fresh scrapes and bruises she’d gotten from playing soccer with him in the park.

“Everything has a place in the world, dokhtaram,” he said. “A niche. Do you remember that word?”

Sameen furrowed her eyebrows in concentration. She’d been poring over a book about it the other day, preparing for the upcoming school year, in which she’d be entering grade 5 while the other kids her age would be in grade 4. “Like…an animal’s home and role in an ecosystem?”

“Das khosh,” Baba said, proudly ruffling her hair. “Sometimes your niche is an unexpected place. Like the coin and the hole. Makes you question again how things relate to each other, no?” He pulled the coin out of his pocket, placed it in her hand – tiny in his – and closed her fingers over it. “Someday,” Baba added, “you’ll find your own niche too.”

Little Sameen nodded then, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. Maybe he was trying to reassure himself. Baba and Maman secretly worried about her. Not that it bothered her in the slightest, but she was always a loner at school. Too “aloof” to make friends, too precocious for her lesser classmates, too foreign to fit in with her white peers’ culture, too different all in all –  

And too “cold and uncaring” to be a doctor. Shaw knew then, as she was kicked out of medical school, that she would never, in fact, fit into a niche: she would merely flit from place to place, faceless, unknown, ghostly.

Until she met Root, that was. Root, who entered Shaw’s universe like a whirlwind, rearranging everything in it such that she was at its centre. Root, who moved into Shaw’s apartment one possession at a time, beginning with a toothbrush; Root, who began to occupy Shaw’s every thought.

Root, whose embrace feels like home – Shaw’s very own niche.

 _We’re perfect for each other_ , she sometimes says, her voice lilting, her smile all-knowing. Shaw has to admit that Root’s been right all along – it was she who made Shaw question (and break) all her rules on relationships.

These nights, it’s much too muggy to cuddle, but Shaw likes the feel of Root’s bare back pressed against her chest and Root’s ass cradled against Shaw’s pelvis, their legs tangled together and their fingers entwined as their tranquil forms curve harmoniously into a golden spiral: order in the chaos of the universe.

(Negative space between them bothers Shaw. There have been too many mornings in which she reached for Root only to feel cool sheets and a gaping chasm in her chest.)

Perhaps that’s why Root’s absence wakes her suddenly in the middle of the night. Any traces of worry are quelled, however, when Shaw notices the light pooling onto the hardwood floor from beneath the door.

Vaguely, she wonders how Root managed to wriggle out of her embrace, before slipping on her previously discarded tank top and shorts and padding to the bathroom. She scrunches her face and blinks blearily, her eyes assaulted by the brightness.

“Sorry Sweetie. Didn’t mean to wake you up,” Root says softly. Her back is still turned to Shaw; she’s staring at their reflections. Her silk bathrobe is untied, revealing her chest.

“Mirrors lie,” Shaw murmurs. “You taught me that.”

“Doubt it’s lying in this case. These are awful no matter who sees them.” Root runs a finger over the jagged scar on her sternum.

Shaw steps closer, gently tugging Root’s bathrobe to the side while lifting her tank top. “Look, we match,” Shaw says, examining the scars they each have on their hips.

“I almost lost you that day,” Root breathes.

“Could the mirror have told you that?”

“What?”

“All our scars have a story. Mirrors can’t tell you about them. Therefore, mirrors lie.” Shaw wraps her arms around Root’s waist, nudging the robe off Root’s right shoulder with her nose. “I know the history behind all of these.” She lightly kisses the thin, faded white scars etched on Root’s arm. “I know you got many of them from being a reckless dumbass who doesn’t call for backup.”

Root hisses as the kisses turn into nips.

“I remember all the times you crashed at my place after I patched you up.” Shaw trails her lips back up Root’s jaw and gently brushes aside Root’s hair to expose her bad ear. Shaw is the only one allowed to touch Root there. It’s a privilege, really, being able to caress the most secret crevices of Root’s body, and she kisses the old scar reverently.

At last, Shaw places her hand, calloused with twin scars from mirror shards, on Root’s chest. “And this one,” she says quietly, “is from the day I almost lost _you_.” A long silence. “I don’t like to remember what happened,” Shaw admits. “But in the end…I didn’t lose you. Right?”

Root nods ever so slightly.

“That’s what matters. It shows that you’re a survivor. And that’s pretty goddamn hot.”

“You think so?”

Shaw smirks. She lifts Root up, deposits her on the countertop and steps deliberately between her legs, her intentions clear. Then, Shaw leans forward and plasters open-mouthed kisses against Root’s chest scar, one hand wrapped around Root’s waist and the other snaking its way up her torso, palming her breast.

Root sighs as she threads her fingers through Shaw’s hair, but after a moment, she cups Shaw’s face and brings her to eye level.

“You’re very sweet, Sameen,” she whispers. “But no one else knows how I got these and it’s not like I can tell them. So I can’t go around wearing anything sexy and revealing, you know? Fancy dinner parties are out of the question. It…limits the kinds of cover identities I can have.”

It dawns on Shaw then. This isn’t just about Root thinking that her scars are disfiguring; it’s also about their effects on her niche, her role as the analog interface. 

“Root…we talked about this. Baby steps, remember?” She doesn’t know what more to say without sounding like a hypocrite. Root needs more time to heal, but Shaw can understand her restlessness and resentment for not being able to do the job she loves.

Root smiles sadly. “It’s okay Sweetie. Thanks for trying.” She pecks Shaw on the lips and slides off the countertop. Shaw watches her leave, lost in thought.

*

Root struts up to the chrome-blue Ferrari and taps its tinted window. “Good evening sir,” she says daintily when the window has rolled down. “I’m going to need to commandeer your vehicle.”

The man ( _Scott Owens, age 43_ , the Machine has supplied) stares incredulously at her for a moment, then sputters, “Now look here lady! I don’t know who you think you are, but this is _my_ car! I bought it with my own –”

“Money that you embezzled from your partner, who you suspect is on the cusp of finding out and intend to murder?”

Owens’ eyes widen. “H-how – who –”

“Concerned third party,” Root says, flashing a feral grin. “And now I’m afraid we’re all out of time.”

Root simultaneously reaches into the car to open the door and tases the perp. He falls onto the road with a dull thud, convulsing.

“Sweetie? A little help please.”

Shaw emerges from the shadows and drags their number off the road and into an alley.

“Thank you,” Root says in a sing-song voice, kissing Shaw on the cheek. She produces a handkerchief from her pocket and gags Owens, then zipties his hands and feet. When she’s finished, she towers over him and admires her handiwork.

“Well done,” Shaw says with an approving nod. She can’t help but feel a bit turned on. Root’s conditioned her to feel arousal at the sight of zipties and tasers ever since their first night together in the CIA safehouse.

Root beams at her. She’s brimming with an electrical energy, like her taser. It’s a spark – possibly a fleeting one –  but Shaw takes it as a good omen.

“I texted Fusco; he said he’ll collect this guy in a couple of minutes. Mission accomplished.” Shaw puts her hand on Root’s lower back, guiding her to their “acquired” Ferrari.

“That was fun,” Root chirps. “Now what?”

“Get in loser,” Shaw says, revving the engine. “We’re going shopping.”

Root has only just fastened her seatbelt before the Ferrari’s racing down the streets, disappearing into the summer evening.

*

“Can’t say I imagined this would be our destination,” Root says, surveying the building. “Not of your own volition, anyway.”

“I did say we were going shopping,” Shaw replies smugly. “Just that I, uh, don’t intend to pay for anything.”

“Nice,” Root laughs. “Still confused as to what we could possibly need from here though.”

“Trust me,” Shaw says with a wink as she forces the backdoor open with a crowbar. “Come on.”

The lights flutter on as they enter. Bloomingdale’s looks just as pristine as Shaw remembers it. It’s as though her battle with Blonde Bitch never happened.

“That was your station, wasn’t it?” Root asks as she points. “Ah, the nostalgia.”

Shaw strides toward it and pats the stool. “Have a seat. Lose the shirt and bra.”

“Going to be that kind of party, huh?” Root says, peeling off her T-shirt and unhooking her bra with a salacious smirk. “Feels a bit weird being half-naked in a public space, even if we’re alone. Are we going to torment your old boss by fucking on the counter?”

“…No,” Shaw answers after a brief pause. It does sound tempting though, and the view of Root’s breasts isn’t helping.

“That’s a shame.”

“I got something bigger in mind,” Shaw breathes in Root’s ear. Root shivers and licks her lips. “But for now, I’m going to need you to sit still.” Shaw studies the scar on Root’s chest and nods once. Then she steps behind the counter and begins pulling various items out.

“Are you…?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought–”

“Please. My makeup application skills are flawless. This is basically like painting. I got more skills with using brushes than anyone working here. I just hated dealing with all those goddamn vain soccer moms. I’d rather have been shooting people. Now I really need you to shut up.”

Root mimes zipping her lips and stares and stares at Shaw.

Shaw, for her part, tries to ignore the intensity of Root’s gaze as she rubs Clinique superprimer on the scar. Somehow, she notes, this feels more intimate than anything else they’ve ever done, including massaging Root’s back in the evenings and having slow, tender sex afterwards.

Shaw is an artist, and Root is her canvas. She’d be damned if she doesn’t make Root feel like the most stunning portrait in the world.

The scar’s reddish-purple hues call for green and yellow colour correctors, which Shaw dabs onto Root’s skin with a sponge. She uses a brush to apply Cover FX drops, followed by La Mer powder that hide the correctors and blend the makeup tones with the rest of Root’s skin.

“Pass me that black bottle, would you?”

“‘Skindinavia makeup setting spray: _bridal_ collection’ huh?” Root reads. She bats her eyelashes. “Why Sameen, what ever could be the occasion?”

Shaw rolls her eyes and swipes the bottle out of Root’s hand. With a flourish, she applies the finishing touch.

“Can I look at it now?”

“Nope. Not done with you yet.”

Shaw hovers over the various lipstick shades available at the station and settles on a hot pink. They’re a breath apart now, and as Shaw paints Root’s parted lips, the urge to take her right this instant intensifies.

“We’re on a clock,” she murmurs as much to Root as to herself.

Root nods, but the look in her eyes promises that her lipstick will be smeared on Shaw’s inner thigh later in the evening.

Shaw clears her throat and steps away. “Now,” she announces, making a sweeping gesture toward the store’s myriad designer dresses, “we need to get changed.”

Fifteen minutes later, once Shaw’s slipped into a black cocktail dress and matching heels, put her hair up in an elegant bun, packed her and Root’s clothes into a plastic bag, and stuffed as many necessary makeup products as she could into a makeup box, she knocks on the door to Root’s dressing room. “Ready to go?”

Root opens the door and wordlessly turns back to the mirror on the opposite wall. Shaw hugs her loosely from behind, propping her chin on her shoulder, and asks, “Now what do you think?”

“Is this mirror lying?”

“Up to you to decide.”

It would be impossible to describe Root as anything but gorgeous. Her hair cascades in its usual waves down her shoulders, spilling onto her low-cut bright blue, form-fitting dress. Root touches the place where she knows her now-invisible scar to be. “Thank you,” she whispers.

*

“You can take off the blindfold now,” Shaw says.

Root looks around the upscale restaurant, drinking in the view of the city visible through the ceiling-to-floor window. “Wow,” she breathes.

“Good evening. Welcome to Blend on the Water,” the maître d’ greets them.

“Hi. We have a reservation for two under the name Sameen Turing?”

“Of course. Right this way.”

He leads them to a mahogany table by the window, illuminated by a little lamp. From there, they can see the city lights dancing dazzlingly on the East River. Shaw ensures that Root is seated with her bad ear facing the glass and her good ear directed toward the restaurant, then settles into the chair across from her.  

“Your waiter will arrive shortly,” the maître d’ says with a warm smile.

Shaw wastes no time in scanning her menu, but she can feel Root’s adoring eyes on her. “What?” she asks innocently.

“This is really nice, Sameen,” Root says softly. She reaches across the table and takes Shaw’s hand in hers.

“Just didn’t want you Eeyoring anymore,” Shaw murmurs.

Root chuckles but looks almost wistfully out the window. “Think my carriage will turn back into a pumpkin after tonight though, right?”

“No,” Shaw says firmly. “I promise there’ll be more nights like this.”

“More dates, you mean?” Root teases.

“And more numbers together.” Shaw pauses. “I guess…maybe I could’ve been letting you out onto the field more. I just…”

Root squeezes Shaw’s hand. “I understand.”

A comfortable silence descends as they gaze at each other. Root, with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, looks _radiant_ ; happier, healthier and more empowered than she’s ever been in the past eight months. Unbidden, Shaw murmurs the words that Baba had said to Maman here decades ago: “Kheili khosh geli.” _You’re so beautiful._

The city lights look dim compared to Root’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend Pegs for looking up the restaurant for me :)


	4. when things explode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt meme](http://ariyah-v.tumblr.com/post/162362619809/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) #71 - "Kiss me, quick." Requested by theblackandviolet.

Over the last few years, the low-frequented (and now abandoned) Highway 207, nestled between the dry plains of Texas, became the object of scrutiny, for several mysterious disappearances had there occurred. Rumour had it that these incidents were somehow tied to the building standing formidably on the plains, about a hundred feet away from the road.

Indeed, this building exudes a sinister air: its austere modernness contrasts starkly with the rustic landscape, and its cold, white lights cast an eerie glow against the inky darkness of the sky.

Inquiries were, of course, made regarding the disappearances, but they were quickly quelled; the cases quietly dismissed. Ultimately, the whispers gave way to silence.

_Silence_.

Silence, too, characterizes the present landscape. Tonight, not even the crickets are chirping. The atmosphere is still and ponderous – a harbinger, perhaps, of some impending catastrophe.

A low hum suddenly resounds in the distance, growing steadily louder as a pair of glowing orbs advance rapidly along the narrow road. The black SUV to which the headlights belong eventually rolls to a stop, and its occupants step out, surveying their surroundings.

“So that’s it, huh?” Shaw muses. “Place sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“Monsters love small towns,” Root murmurs.

The odd tone is not lost on Shaw, and she studies Root for a moment. “Know what we’ll find in there?”

“I have a hunch.”

Shaw waits, but Root does not elaborate. “Not a great time for you to be cryptic, oracle,” she grumbles.

But Root’s eyes are glassy, and there is a faraway expression on her face. She whirls around and hisses, “Kiss me, quick.”

Before Shaw can even process the command, Root shoves her against the hood of the SUV and crashes their lips together. Shaw, however, plays along convincingly. She wraps her legs around Root’s waist, ensnaring her in a vicelike grip, and eagerly darts her tongue into Root’s mouth.

“Excuse me!” a gravelly voice says, startling the women out of their passionate embrace. “What do you think you’re doing out here at this hour?”

“Oh, terribly sorry, sir,” Root says, slipping naturally into a Southern drawl. “We seem to be havin’ some engine difficulties. My girlfriend here’s uneasy about bein’ stuck in the middle o’ nowhere.” She suppresses a smirk as Shaw, unbeknownst to the security guard, narrows her eyes. “Would you be so kind as to helpin’ a couple o’ gals out? Then we’ll go off on our merry way.”

A tense pause ensues. Just as Root is contemplating simply tasing this nuisance, he acquiesces, apparently having succumbed to the simpering smile plastered to her face.

“Fine,” he says, slightly mollified, as he pulls a flashlight out of his belt. “Let’s have a look then.”

No sooner does he lift the hood and begin to examine the wires than Shaw seizes him in a chokehold from behind. He sputters, then falls limply to the road.

“Works every time,” Root purrs. “Nicely done, darlin’.”

Shaw doesn’t waste a moment in stripping off the guard’s jacket and shrugging it on over her tanktop. “Extra ammo could be useful,” she murmurs as she pulls the gun out of his waistband and tucks it into her own.

With a flick of her knife, Root carefully cuts the RFID chip out of the guard’s arm and dribbles alcohol on it. “Ready for your shot?”

“I’ll do yours since you’re doing mine,” Shaw promises huskily.

Root blows her a kiss. “Speaking of…” She adroitly swaps the injector for her stun gun, aiming it somewhere behind Shaw. Her prey, too, collapses into the grass. “Impeccable timing on this lummox’s part,” Root says as she prances toward him.

Shaw finishes ziptying her guard’s hands and ankles and joins Root a moment later to give her her injection.  Both now suitably attired, they make their way toward the building. With each step, Root becomes increasingly sombre, all traces of her perkiness having evaporated.

“Root.” Shaw seizes Root’s arm and stares carefully at her. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Root hesitates. “Whatever we find,” she says slowly, “I need you to know that this is real.” With that, Root leans toward Shaw and kisses her just behind the ear. In the light of the facility, she can discern a number of microexpressions flitting through Shaw’s eyes, from understanding and shock, to anger and cold resoluteness.

“And did She say what She wants us to do?” Shaw demands.

“She leaves that decision up to us.” Root glances around. “We’re still clear. Come on.”

To their relief, their RFID chips grant them access into the building without a hitch. They are not surprised in the slightest to be greeted with a server farm; however, it’s set up unusually, like a labyrinthe.

“Lights are out. You said that’s a good thing, right?”

Root nods. “But I still suspect these are a front for whatever else is –”

“Hey!” a blonde woman says. “You don’t–”

She’s cut off as Root shoves a syringe into her neck and deposits her behind a wall of servers. Root and Shaw scurry deeper into the maze.

“Useless costumes,” Root mutters darkly.

“More Rocket Grunts where she came from, I’ll bet,” Shaw whispers.

As if on cue, Root peers around the corner and catches another agent with her taser. He was apparently on his way to investigate the cause of his colleague’s outburst.

“I think we need to get to the centre,” Root says. “Home of the Minotaur.”

“Classic,” Shaw snorts. 

It takes them twenty minutes and a dozen more felled agents before they at last reach the heart of the maze and –

“ _Fuck._ ” At the sight of the neural transponders, Shaw immediately begins to rub at her neck, but Root tugs her hand away and holds it soothingly, tapping their secret code against it.  

“These look a lot like the ones John and I found. Guessing they’re more advanced though.” Root rifles through the papers, her mind racing.

“Sulaiman Khan,” Shaw murmurs, skimming through her own stack of papers. “Name ring a bell?”

“One of our numbers. He was working on digital immunization technology, and Samaritan stole his research–” The sickening realization hits her then. “And then Samaritan created a superflu, except She counteracted it with a vaccine…but with people panicking and flocking to get vaccinated, Samaritan must’ve used the opportunity to collect DNA–”

“As a stepping stone for full-blown eugenics,” Shaw finishes. Her eyes burn with fury. “So even with Samaritan gone, these assholes would use the transponders to pick out people with the best genes and then brainwash them to parrot Samaritan’s ideology. And those ‘disappearances’ around here? They’ve been experimenting on the folks they kidnapped. Probably in Johannesburg.”

Root scowls. “I should’ve just destroyed this stuff back in Maple. Stopped this altogether.” How many people were used as guinea pigs besides Delia Jones? Root was more preoccupied with rescuing Shaw at the time.

“Now’s our chance,” Shaw says. “She knew what our decision would be.”

“Let’s get out of here then.”

They dash back to the doors, shooting any agents who’ve regained mobility. Shaw unpins a timed fuse grenade and tosses it into the middle of the floor. They just make it out of the blast radius when the facility erupts into flames with a thunderous _boom_.

Neither of them stops until they reach their SUV. Root collapses against Shaw, clutching her chest and wheezing.

“You did well,” Shaw says. “You did really well.” She opens the passenger door, pulls out a waterbottle and hands it to Root, who accepts it gratefully.

Both women settle into the car when Root’s caught her breath. A U-turn later, they’re speeding back in the direction from which they came.

Shaw sticks her left hand out the window, emphatically giving the burning building a parting middle finger. “Hope those ashes rain down into hell and make Greer choke and die again,” she mutters savagely.

Root hums in agreement, but her eyes are glued to the wing mirror. Plumes of smoke ascend toward the sky, disappearing into its dark canvas, while debris showers onto the field. The flames greedily devour all vestiges of Samaritan and its agents. Root watches on with the grim, vindictive satisfaction of an avenging angel.  


	5. home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt meme](http://ariyah-v.tumblr.com/post/162362619809/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) #93 - "I tried, but I just can't stay away from you anymore." Requested by anonymous. I changed the prompt a little bit, and it'll quickly become evident why.

Satisfied at last with the sheen of her favourite Heckler and Koch USP compact, Shaw reassembles the weapon and tucks it under the pillows on the couch. She gets up and stretches; her legs are still sore from sprinting across what felt like the entire city in pursuit of a particularly irksome perp.

 _Might as well call it a night_ , she decides.

Shaw makes her way to the kitchen, opens a cupboard and is greeted by the impressive collection of ridiculous mugs that Root has amassed. She bypasses mugs with “ _I love you a whole latte_ ” and “ _If it requires pants or a bra, it’s not happening today_ ” inscribed on them, in favour of a beige and brown one designed to resemble a dog. “ _I ruff you!_ ” it says against the brim. She pours milk (cow milk, none of Root’s almond milk nonsense) into it and taps her fingers thoughtfully against the quartz countertop as the microwave drones.

 _“She’ll be back soon,”_ the Machine says softly.

Shaw sighs. “How is she?” Root and her devoted nerd herd left for San Francisco a couple of days ago. Root’s been sending dozens of lewd photos of herself, and Shaw can imagine her gleefully depleting corporate assholes’ bank accounts. Nevertheless…

 _“Perfectly fine,”_ She reassures. _“Not even a scratch.”_

“Good.”

The microwave beeps then, and Shaw looks behind her quickly as she retrieves her mug. To her relief, Bear snores on from his bed by the bay window, oblivious.

The milk vanishes in a few large gulps. Shaw sticks the mug in the dishwasher. Its hum is stifled as she heads to the master bathroom, where she tosses her clothes into the hamper, changes into shorts and a too-small black tanktop, and brushes her teeth.

Her nighttime ritual complete, she steps back into her room, the warmth of the hardwood against her bare feet a pleasant contrast to the bathroom’s cool black tile. She squints at the bed for a long moment. Then, she abruptly turns on her heel, marches back to the living room, and flops onto the couch with a huff, drawing a thin blanket up to her chin.  

Light filters through the curtains and slants against the ceiling. Shaw wills it into images of Root – Root laughing, Root dual-wielding, Root strutting like she owns the streets, Root pressing Shaw against a wall and kissing her...

*

Shaw’s startled awake when a gentle wind caresses her cheeks, and the edges of the blanket tickle her neck. She didn’t realize it had slipped off her. Nor, apparently, did she realize she had a visitor. Shaw stares at her, wondering if, in her sleep-addled state, she’s dreaming.

“Root?”

Root looks slightly taken aback but recovers swiftly. A smile plays at her lips as she kneels next to Shaw. “Hey Sweetie,” she whispers, her warm breath washing over Shaw’s face. “Did you miss me?”

Shaw cups Root’s face in one hand. She said those same words when she first broke into Shaw’s loft a lifetime ago. Now she has a key and still manages to catch Shaw off guard.

Or perhaps Shaw’s let her guard down entirely around her.

Shaw tugs Root into a kiss. Her lips betray her longing, and she thinks she can taste it on Root’s lips too. It’s only after three attempts that she allows Root to surface for air.

“What time is it?” Shaw breathes.

“A little past 4am.”

“Thought you were supposed to be back at 4 _pm_.”

“We got an early flight out. What can I say?” Root murmurs, stroking Shaw’s hair. “I tried, but I just couldn’t stay away from you anymore.”

Shaw tries to respond, but her words are engulfed by a yawn.  

Chuckling, Root leans down again and kisses her forehead. “Go back to sleep. We’ll catch up in the morning,” she promises.

Shaw lies quite still, forcing her drooping eyelids to stay open. A few minutes trickle by silently. “Oh for god’s sake,” Shaw mutters, kicking the blanket aside.

Root’s already sprawled on the bed. She’s switched on her lava lamp already, as though she was expecting Shaw to join her. _Keeps away the nightmares_ , she once said. Shaw has to admit that the bizarre purple blobs and the lilac light radiating from it really are kind of soothing.

Root smiles, her eyes still shut, as Shaw slips under the covers. She immediately scuttles closer and tucks her head against Shaw’s chest, sighing happily.

*

Extricating herself from Root’s limbs without waking her proves to be exceedingly challenging. Shaw carefully stuffs an Ugly Bat Pillow™ under Root’s head as she clambers out of bed. She pauses at the door, however, and glances back.

Root’s tousled hair partially obscures her face, but she puffs it away every now and then as she exhales. She looks peaceful, vulnerable, child-like in her sleep. She lies on her stomach; her long legs are spread luxuriously over the length of her half of the bed while her arm drapes over Shaw’s side.

When Shaw first started letting her stay for the night, Root used to curl into a tiny ball at the very edge of the bed like a kitten, as though terrified of being too obtrusive. It was probably a habit she’d picked up from her childhood and later transiency, sleeping in tiny cots, plastic airport chairs, airplane and train seats…

Something stirs in Shaw’s chest, and she leaves the room at that instant. She should be stirring batter, not these strange emotions that she doesn’t know what to do with.

*

Shaw cracks her knuckles. She knows this recipe like the back of her hand. She begins by combining 3 cups of flour, 2 tablespoons of sugar, 4 teaspoons of sugar and 1 teaspoon of cinnamon into a large bowl, and mixing them together. Next, she adds 2½ cups of milk and 2 teaspoons of vanilla. She expertly cracks 2 eggs, one after the other, against the bowl and watches the yolk ooze into the batter. She then mashes bananas into a cup and stirs the ensuing purée with the rest of the ingredients. Finally, she uses a rubber spatula to fold in half a cup of chocolate chips.

As the batter sizzles on the griddle, Root encircles her arms around Shaw’s waist, trapping her in a sloth-like embrace, and trails sleepy kisses down her neck. “Mmm, smells yummy,” she croons, her voice slightly muffled against Shaw’s skin.

“Trying to distract me?”

“Maybe.” Root fingertips brush the exposed skin of Shaw’s stomach. “Are you distracted now?”

A loud yelp interrupts them. Cognizant of Root’s presence, Bear bounds toward her enthusiastically.

“Speaking of distractions…” Shaw smirks.

Root meets him by the wooden dining chairs. She laughs as Bear bowls her over, valiantly trying but failing to lick her face. Eventually, once Bear’s had his fill of her attention, Root prepares a bowl of dog food and sets it before him.

“Better wash up,” Shaw calls to her as she places two plates laden with banana-chocolate chip pancakes on the island. “Breakfast is ready.”

“I like this,” Root says quietly a little while later. She swings her legs from the stool and takes a sip of coffee from a mug with a picture sloth rising out of another mug, the word _sloffee_ emblazoned beneath it.

“Wha, fuh panfafeth?” Shaw asks between mouthfuls.

Root kisses Shaw’s bulging cheek. “They’re delicious as always. But I meant more _this_.” She gestures vaguely around her. “Coming home.” The sunlight catches her eyes, rendering them the homely, golden-brown tint of the maple syrup glistening on her pancakes.

Shaw gazes at her. She nods contemplatively and takes a swig of her own coffee, deliberately turning her mug so that its bright writing – “ _Good morning, asshole!” –_ faces Root. “Yeah. I like this too,” Shaw murmurs. She’s rewarded with a fond smile.

They finish their meal in companionable tranquillity. After the dishes are cleared and the island is wiped down, Root hands a plain package to Shaw.

“What’s this?”

“A present, silly.”

 Shaw can sense Root’s eagerness and opens the package uncharacteristically slowly without breaking eye contact with her. Root purses her lips, as though tamping down an exasperated huff.

“An Apache revolver?” Shaw whistles. She marvels at the glint of light against the brass; toys with the knuckle dusters, the knife and the pistol. There are bullets in the box to go with it.

“Pistol’s not great for aim, so I’m afraid it doesn’t have much use. But I thought it would look good in our display case,” Root says proudly.

 Shaw runs her finger along the blade and gives Root a once-over. “Oh, I can think of several uses.”

“Why Sameen,” Root purrs, “are you trying to _turn me_ _on_?”

Shaw stares at Root. Root stares at Shaw. Shaw’s eyes dart down to Root’s T-shirt and the power button displayed on it. She groans.

The shirt ends up lying in tattered shreds, along with Root’s shorts and underwear, by the quaking dining table.


	6. light and shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from my good friend Pegs: Root and Shaw watch the eclipse.

“Feels like we’re ushering in another apocalypse,” you remark wryly. “But at least we’re doing so in style this time.”

You didn’t think you would ever physically set foot in Oregon. You tried to lock up your childhood in a minute hollow, quashed under a thousand other thoughts. You hoped that those old memories would suffocate and wither, like you thought you would when you were stuck in detention, in your decrepit house with your sick mother, in the hell hole that was Bishop – and years later, in the asylum, in Harold’s Faraday cage. But here, lounging on a lawn chair with the Deschutes-Columbia Plateau sprawling before you, you feel oddly free. The mountains are certainly a step up from the dank subway, in both senses of the phrase.

Shaw plops a piece of brie into her mouth and washes it down with a sip of wine. You can tell that her eyes are closed behind her protective glasses as she savours the taste. “Solar eclipses are misunderstood,” she declares.

You bestow a demi-smile upon her. “Many unconventionally beautiful things are,” you reply softly.

The meaning is not lost on her. She plucks a grape off its vine and twirls it in her fingers contemplatively. “I kind of get why it was thought to be some omen of doom though,” she says. “Fear of temperatures plummeting, crops dying, being plunged into an eternal night and whatnot.”

“People fear things they don’t understand. The unknown – rarely the thing itself.” You idly wonder how coherent you are. You’ve downed nearly half a bottle of wine and feel pleasantly buzzed.

“So they come up with ridiculous explanations for them to make themselves feel better?” Shaw intones.

You chuckle. “Like Camus said, humans constantly search for meaning in a universe where there is none. Myths help turn the unknown into some version of the known, at least.” _And then they pray,_ you think. Your own words ricochet in the depths of your mind: _That’s the problem with humans. They just sit around, waiting for someone to fix things…_

“What stories did you tell yourself?”

“Hm?”

“I know you,” Shaw says. “You had more knowledge about the universe stored in that big brain of yours than all your dumbass teachers combined. I bet you made up stories out of boredom.”

A helpless blush burgeons against your cheeks. It takes you a moment to register the caution that managed to seep into Shaw’s carefully detached tone. She isn’t one to pry, especially not into that hidden hollow of yours. It’s the effort that she puts into being empathetic just for you that compels you to share the most private parts of yourself with her.

“I liked to believe that the sun and moon were star-crossed lovers, so to speak,” you begin shyly. You’re suddenly 12 years old again, lying on your back in the field beside Hannah, trying to ignore the flutter in your belly when her pinky accidently grazes yours.

“Hopeless romantic,” Shaw mutters.

“What's that?”

“How romantic,” she says more loudly.

You hum wistfully. “Yeah. Anyway, the moon was unhappy being so rugged and grey. The sun couldn’t bear her misery, so she shone her own light on the moon and made her glow in the sky, revealing her beauty. That’s how they fell in love.”

Hannah always referred to the sun as a man, but as you were coming to terms with your blossoming sexuality, you secretly preferred to think of both celestial bodies as maidens. You must admit that you needed stories too, to see yourself in them.

“And then?” Shaw presses.

“Their duties kept them apart. They had to work hard to maintain some modicum of harmony in the galaxy: the sun oversaw the planets while the moon shepherded the tides. But once every several years, fortune smiles on them and they reunite.” You lower your voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “And that’s why we can’t look at the eclipse directly. They’re passionately making love up there.”

You glance furtively at Shaw, expecting her to mock you, but instead, she quietly says, “Sounds kind of like us.”

Your eyes glaze as you stare at her in stunned speechlessness. You want to reassure her – and yourself – that you are nigh inseparable now, that the time you spend apart is brief. But those days are months to Shaw; her months in captivity were years.

“Hey there astronaut,” Shaw says, waving in front of your face. “You coming back to Earth any time soon?”        

You blink and smile faintly. You take Sameen’s hand and playfully smother her knuckles with kisses. She indulges you for several long seconds before pulling away. With a grimace, she makes a show of wiping your spit off on her pants, as if it’s the most cootie-laden substance her knuckles have ever been covered in; as if she wasn’t, mere hours ago, burying them deep in your –

“Look up,” she commands.

Night has overwhelmed the day. Silver stars damask the sky’s satin black cloak. In its centre, like the cloak’s jeweled brooch, is a black orb with a white aureole glittering around it.  

“It’s gorgeous,” you breathe.

“Those lovebirds made it,” Shaw murmurs. She rests her hand on yours. “We made it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also had Root reference Camus' ideas in the second chapter of [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10993899/chapters/24486912), while she and Shaw were watching another celestial event.


	7. remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anonymous: "soft, vulnerable, cuddly Shaw." 
> 
> Sorry, this is a bit sloppy. It's been busy these past several days, but I really wanted to finish this prompt before the academic term recommences.

Beads of hot water amble down your arms, carrying with them the dull ache from your muscles, and disappear into a tuft of the orchid pink, cotton candy-like froth. You wish you could inhale the heady aroma of the bath bomb that Root’s selected for you – it’s your favourite one, artistically combining the scents of sea salt, jasmine, lavender, cedar and a hint of crushed pine needles. Nonetheless, you sigh contentedly, your breath mingling with the steam, and recline in the tub.

This must be what paradise feels like.

As if to complete your heavenly vision, Root pads into the bathroom just then, holding a mug designed to resemble Winnie the Pooh’s honeypot with the word “HUИNY” scrawled on it. It’s not hard to guess what’s inside it.

“Honey-lemon tea,” Root murmurs, “to soothe your sore throat.”

You take a sip, close your eyes and nod. “Baybe I should get sick bore ofteb.”

You were outraged when Root had first checked your temperature and announced you had a fever. It meant being stuck in bed, feeling like shit, unable to shoot anyone. But Root has been pampering you so thoroughly, so sumptuously, that you’ve been preening under her attention – and actively craving it. It’s shocking how well she takes care of others when she’s terrible at taking care of herself.

 _You’re so motherly,_ you teased on the first day of your illness, between spoonfuls of her excellent homemade chicken noodle soup.

Root froze for a split second. You could see her facial muscles tightening, her expression becoming inscrutable. _Years of practice,_ she replied quietly.

Presently, Root’s lips curve into a small smile at your comment. She says nothing for a moment as she sluices water against your arms with a washcloth, a gesture she must have performed thousands of times for her mother. “Mmm, sounds like you’re looking for an excuse to spend more quality time with me,” she purrs, batting her eyelashes.

You splash water at her. Giggling, Root peppers kisses against your cheek. She knows she’s right. You instinctively cradle her head and draw her closer. She nuzzles against you for a few tranquil minutes.

“Do you want more tea?” she eventually asks, glancing at your empty mug.

“No thanks.”

She takes the mug and leaves the bathroom to put it in the dishwasher. Your mind protests at the brief bereavement. You abruptly decide to pull the plug, watching as the bubbles slowly swirl down the drain. Maybe Root will let you lie down on her lap now, carding her fingers through your hair while she reads a book. The thought pleases you.

“Done with your bath?” Root asks.

“My fingers are wrinkly.”

Root laughs and wraps you in a fluffy towel that feels like it was freshly laundered. Once you’re dry, she helps you into navy blue flannel pajamas that you strongly suspect belong to her, though you’ve never seen her wear them. You stand under her doting gaze like small child with bunny slippers and sleeves that have to be rolled back a few times.

Root puts a hand on your back and leads you to the bedroom, fishing out a bottle of VapoRub from the medicine cabinet along the way. She lays you down on the bed and undoes the first three buttons of your shirt before languidly applying the ointment on your chest. The sharp menthol odour wafts through your nostrils, effectively tricking you into feeling as though your sinuses are clear. You feel like jelly, and you begin to nod off as Root finishes rubbing rhythmic, concentric circles against your torso.

You can hear the water running – Root must be washing her hands. You shiver momentarily as the covers are momentarily pulled back. The bed shifts.

“You probably shouldn’t,” you mumble half-heartedly.

But Root sidles beside you and tucks your head in the nook between her neck and shoulder. Her body feels warm and inviting, like a glowing hearth in the winter. She swaddles you both in blankets as you snuggle next to her. All further objections die instantly in your throat.

“If I catch your cold –”

“When.”

“When I catch your cold,” she concedes with a wide yawn, “I know you’ll take good care of me. Like you always do.”

“Absolutely,” you whisper.

She kisses your forehead and hums a lullaby as your surroundings give way to hazy dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shaw's mug](https://www.thesun.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/dd-composite-the-pooh.jpg?strip=all&quality=100&w=750&h=500&crop=1)


	8. minutiae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Root falls asleep on Shaw in the car. Shaw lets her. 
> 
> This story alludes to a oneshot that I wrote, but took down, in January.

Detective Lionel Fusco prided himself on his ability to detect, thank you very much. His astuteness always enabled him to discern things that other people couldn’t.

Often.

Sometimes.

Alright, in retrospect, he should have known that Glasses had a supercomputer that was feeding him intel. He probably could have eventually surmised that an AI Armageddon was brewing under his nose, preposterous though it sounded. There had been signs, of course – signs that Carter had picked up that he hadn’t. Signs that included whatshisface with the swoop brown hair rambling on about this very topic years ago.

Anyway. That was in the past now. These days, with Samaritan dead, he just had to deal with the shenanigans that Root, Shaw and Big Sister got up to. Christ, those were three scary chicks.

Said women had just finished crippling a handful of homicidal drug dealers from their rooftop vantage point with a goddamn Remington M24, of all weapons. It was with a heavy sigh and a relentless litany of grumbling that he had arrived with a squad to clean up after them. Couldn’t they give him a break? It was New Year’s Day.

As it transpired though, his services were barely needed. The squad handcuffed and stowed the writhing men into the backseat of the police cars. Meanwhile, to Fusco’s immense horror, he heard himself offer to chauffeur Root and Shaw home. It was probably the way that Root had been leaning on her cane, winded from the descent, that had compelled him to do it.

(He genuinely wondered if Superpowered Nutball could hack his mind. He wouldn’t even be surprised at this point if she could.)

Presently, Fusco glanced at them in the rearview mirror. They were unusually quiet: he’d been anticipating snide remarks about his driving from Shaw and lewd references to their sex life from Root, but instead found Shaw sipping at coffee from a thermos while Root gazed at her. She gently brushed a crumb of something – likely the peanut butter-granola apple bites that they’d both been snacking on – off of Shaw’s lower lip.

Fusco swore he could see sparks flying between them when their eyes met, and he hastily shifted his attention back to the road, praying that they wouldn’t subject him to the sounds of one of their fiery makeout sessions.

But they surprised him yet again. Root leaned toward Shaw as a flower would towards the sun, her eyelids drooping. Shaw buried her face in Root’s hair and inhaled deeply, no doubt appreciating the coconut scent of Root’s shampoo. Then, she lay against Root’s shoulder, snuggling against Root’s parka until she hit a comfortable position, and allowed Root to rest her head against Shaw’s. Any resistance to sleep that Root was previously harbouring instantly drained out of her body; she relaxed entirely and closed her eyes. Shaw played with a lock of Root’s hair for a moment before following suit.

They were… _cuddling_. He’d been one of the few who’d been privy to their relationship growth over the years, but was stunned by the depth of their affection for each other; the ostensible ease that they felt around one another.

Fusco struggled with himself but ultimately refrained from commenting. He could just imagine how a conversation with Small, Dark and Grumpy would go: 

_You're cuddling!_

_No shit, Sherlock. Shut up and drive._

However, once he arrived at a red light, he pulled out his phone and turned around, angling it just so…

“If you take a photo, Lionel,” Shaw murmured, peering at him through half-lidded eyes, “I will shove your phone up your ass.”

With a grunt, Fusco made to toss his phone onto the passenger seat when it unexpectedly buzzed. He tapped his new text message.

 

Fusco chortled and beamed at the little camera. The traffic light turned green then, and he drove on down the powdered streets, humming merrily.

He would get the photo printed and framed, he decided, and surreptitiously place it on Root and Shaw’s mantle the next time he visited.


	9. sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I noted in the previous chapter, I posted this story back in January then promptly took it down. I was just asked about it by a kind anon, so I decided to tweak it a bit and repost it. I'm still not quite happy with it, but if there's even one person who enjoyed it, then it's worth keeping, I think. So, many thanks to the anon for their encouragement. 
> 
> This story itself is based on [this drawing.](https://axl99.tumblr.com/post/148970488764/experienced-snipers-usually-dont-require)

Shaw was perched like a bird of prey on a rooftop in Brooklyn, clutching a freshly acquired Remington M24 from Elias’ former vault, which she and Root had “inherited.” From her vantage point, she had a spectacular view of the sprawling city. The streets, however, were uncharacteristically deserted: the New Year’s revelry had long since ended, and the only sound that could now be heard was the forlorn whistling of the wind, sending snow drifting ghost-like through the frigid air.

“Any updates?” Shaw asked.

“ _None so far_. _They should all be arriving within the next half hour though,”_ replied the Machine.

“They” were two drug dealers and two buyers who had each conspired to kill the others, steal the cocaine and the $1 million from their trade, and scarper.

Shaw sighed and tightened the scarf around her neck. She was no stranger to lengthy winter stakeouts, but she was cold, sleep-deprived and itching to put her powerful new toy to use.

The soft chords of a piano unexpectedly began to stream through Shaw’s earpiece.

 _“Una Mattina_ ,” the Machine said. “ _Do you like it?”_

“Yeah, it’s…kind of nice, actually.”

The soothing melody lulled Shaw into daydream about the domestic rhythm that she and Root had slowly been settling into since they had returned to New York a few weeks ago. Waking up to the smell of Root’s hair in her face and the feel of her bare body in her arms. Quietly sipping coffee together in the kitchen. Listening to _tap tap tap_ of Root’s fingers flying over her keyboard as Shaw cleaned her guns.

It was almost too good to be true. Shaw had only had this kind of carefree bliss early on in the simulations that she had endured, and she occasionally wondered if she was still trapped in a never-ending loop.

She was lost in contemplation until the final notes of the composition faded away. The Machine reeled her back to the present as She abruptly announced, “ _In about twenty-five seconds, Root will be joining us.”_

Shaw frowned and huffed exasperatedly. Of course the Machine would give her virtually no warning: in addition to Root’s personality, She had also adopted her poor timing. “You couldn’t have told me before?”

 _“Didn’t want to interrupt your program,”_ the Machine said brightly.

Shaw barely had time to respond when the door behind her swung open.

A beaming Root limped toward her, leaning heavily on a walking stick. She was dressed similarly to Shaw, in a dark ensemble consisting of a parka with the fur-lined hood drawn up, jeans and boots. A small duffel bag was slung over her shoulder.

“Hey Sweetie,” Root chirped.

“Hey,” Shaw answered. “What are you doing up here? You should be resting.”

“Heard you skipped breakfast,” Root said as she proudly bestowed a thermos of black coffee and a styrofoam container upon Shaw. She leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, “And second breakfast.”

Shaw’s lips tugged up into a small smile as she opened the container. Inside, she found about a dozen chocolate peanut butter granola apple bites, several strips of bacon, a sausage and a few pieces of buttered toast with honey. The food was thankfully still warm and looked enticing. Her mouth began to water, and to Root’s delight, she tore into her breakfast with gusto.  

“‘ave ‘ou eafen ‘ef, foo?” Shaw asked around mouthfuls of sausage.

“Yes–” “ _No_ –” Root and the Machine answered simultaneously.

Shaw guffawed. Root pouted.  

“ _Sorry Root_. _Coffee alone simply does not qualify as breakfast_ ,” said the Machine.

“Thought you were supposed to be on my– mmpf.” Root’s protest was cut short as Shaw shoved a bit of toast into her mouth.

“We’re doing this for your own good, you know,” Shaw said.

She had been somewhat surprised at first when the Machine had so readily agreed to ensure Root’s physical well-being – she didn’t even have to resort to duress. “ _I love her too,_ ” the Machine had reminded her gently. “ _She’s not just my analog interface anymore. I am half of her. A reflection of her.”_

In Root’s fragile state, Shaw and the Machine kept guard over her more vigilantly than ever before. And though she could only take tottering steps at best, fighting to repress the excruciating pain that plagued her body, she could still be reckless. It was, at times, rather like supervising a toddler.

Case in point: Root was currently leaning over the ledge, watching a few cars drive by, as though they were ants.

“Get back,” Shaw said sharply. She’d seen footage of a moment eerily similar to this one. It wasn’t happening again. Not on her watch.

Root turned to Shaw and smiled faintly. She settled snugly behind her without protest, however, swiping an apple bite from the open container in Shaw’s hands. “It’s more comfortable here anyway,” she purred.  

“It’s even more comfortable at home in bed, which is where you should be.”

Root chuckled. She unzipped her bag, producing a large, woolen blanket, and draped it over her and Shaw’s shoulders. She wrapped her arms around Shaw’s abdomen and murmured lasciviously, “I thought I’d keep you warm.” Root kissed Shaw’s cheek. “Besides…”

“You were lonely,” Shaw said quietly.

“I’ve missed going on missions with you, Sameen.” She trailed kisses along Shaw’s jaw. “We always did finish them off with a _bang.”_

_“Root.”_

“I’d slam you against and alley wall and – ”

Shaw pulled Root into a heated kiss; Root reciprocated with equal fervor. “Stay,” Shaw ordered as she turned back to her sniper rifle and peered through the scope. “Try not to distract me too much.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Root’s unchecked grin and felt a small smile creeping onto her own face as well. Root’s presence felt so _right_. Her mind flashed back to the last time they’d been in a similar position, with Root’s body flush against hers as they shot down Samaritan goons in the Stock Exchange. They really did make a good team.

Maybe Shaw had missed this too.

“I think one party has arrived,” Root murmured, pointing to two men clad in black, leaning against a streetlight.

“Just waiting for the buyers then,” said Shaw.

 _“Here they come,”_ the Machine declared a minute later. Sure enough, two more men rounded the corner and approached the dealers.

Shaw fired four shots in quick succession with perfect accuracy. The men collapsed, clutching their knees as sirens sounded in the distance.

“They couldn’t _stand_ each other anyway,” she quipped.

“I love the way you shot them,” Root breathed in awe.

“Cavalry’ll be here soon.”  

“Wanna get out of here?” Root’s voice was low and promising.

Shaw smirked. “Absolutely.”

They hastily packed up their belongings. Shaw helped Root to her feet and began to usher her to the door, intent on returning to the warmth of their safehouse.

“ _Wait,”_ the Machine interrupted. “ _Stay where you are for a few minutes.”_

Root and Shaw exchanged a look, perplexed.

_“There’s just something I’d like you to see.”_

Root and Shaw imbibed the sight before them. Pink and orange streaks painted the sky as dawn broke.

 _“I’ve seen sunrises all over the world. Thousands of times. And each time, it’s still so inspiring.”_ The Machine paused for a moment. Softly, she said, _“I know you’ve both suffered terribly. And you wondered, when so much bad had happened, how the world could possibly go back to being the way it was before the war. Sometimes…I lost hope too.”_

Shaw nodded imperceptibly. Root was glassy-eyed.

_“But I learned that even darkness must pass. Night gives way to day. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer.”_

As if on cue, the sun began to peep over the buildings. They watched in silent awe as it gilded the city.  

 _Una Mattina_. One morning – and the hope it brought. This composition wasn’t a symphony, but it did remind Shaw of Root’s words.

Shaw no longer knew what “reality” even meant anymore. But, she thought as she took Root’s gloved hand in hers, in this version, she had Root, a dog and a god. In this version, this would be their future: taking care of each other while upholding Reese and Finch’s legacy.  

In any version, those were things worth fighting for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Machine's speech is based on Sam's speech to Frodo in LOTR. 
> 
> Also, just an update on prompts: there are about 130 sitting in my inbox right now. Some of them have been there for a few months. I'm itching to fill them, but I have mountains of academic work to do. I will get to them when I can. I'm very grateful to everyone who's sent them my way.


	10. the bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, I am (temporarily) back from the dead. I wanted to take some time to write something this weekend, as it's been quite a while. The prompt was "Snuggly cuddly a lil grumpy sleepy clingy Shaw," and uh, this took an M-rated turn. Oops. I'm really not used to writing smut, so I hope this chapter is okay.

The first thing Shaw perceives is the softness of Root’s hair against her face: she inhales deeply. The second, to her satisfaction, is the burgeoning hickey on Root’s neck. Shaw runs her thumb over it, clinically, then appreciatively, and there plants a gentle kiss.

Root shifts – her neck has always been rather ticklish – but otherwise sleeps on.

Shaw smiles. She kisses Root again, harder this time, and strokes the length of Root’s arm, up and down, up and down, before enmeshing their hands. She leans over, admiring Root’s profile, and alternates between insistent and feather-light kisses to her jaw.

“ _Sameen_.”

Root turns onto her back and drapes her arm over Shaw’s shoulders. Shaw cups her face and presses their lips together. Several long minutes trickle by before they break apart, panting. Shaw wastes no time kissing her way down Root’s body.

“This is a nice way to wake up,” Root murmurs.

Shaw hums in agreement, her mouth on Root’s nipple. But her hum becomes a groan as Root’s phone begins to ring.

“Electronics shouldn’t be allowed in the bedroom,” she grumbles. “Ignore it.”

“It’s Lionel though,” Root remarks as she glances at the screen. “Could be important.”

They stare at each other defiantly.

“Game on,” Shaw declares. “Loser does the winner’s bidding for a week.”

The game is this: Root would answer the phone while Shaw continues to bang her into oblivion, but she cannot reveal in any way to Fusco what they are doing.

Shaw reckons she’s got this in the bag.

“Hey Lionel,” Root says. “Pretty early to be calling.” She tangles her hand in Shaw’s hair to urge her on as she nuzzles Root’s belly.

Shaw blows at the wet skin she’s left in her wake, pleased with the goosebumps that immediately arise. She sidles down further until her head rests between Root’s thighs. Her lips ghost over Root’s clit for a beat, then suddenly latch on. Root shoves her fist into her mouth but fails to completely block the sound of her sharp gasp.

“It’s nothing Lionel,” she manages to say.  “Just stubbed my toe against the coffee table.”

Shaw shakes with laughter, but her mouth remains firmly buried against Root’s soaking core. The intensity of Shaw’s sucking increases, and Root trembles helplessly, already turning into a puddle under Shaw’s ministrations.

“We can be there in about an hour. I’ll run it by Sh- _aww–”_ Root accentuates Shaw’s name with a moan as Shaw slips two fingers inside her and pounds at her known weak spots.

_Game over_.

“I’m just – just a little t-tied up in something,” Root grits out. “I’ll text you later.” The phone lands carelessly onto their pile of abandoned clothes. “ _Fuck,”_ she hisses.

Root yelps with reckless abandon now, her breathy moans and curses crescendoing in tandem with Shaw’s thrusts. She launches herself off the bed as she hits her climax, her back arched and tense. When it’s over, she plops back onto the pillows, utterly spent. Sweat glistens on her heaving chest in the sunlight.

Shaw wipes her mouth, a triumphant smirk tugging at her lips. It evaporates when she glances up and is met with a too-familiar, shit-eating, _I-know-something-you-don’t-know_ grin. Shaw narrows her eyes. “What did you do.”

“Now Sameen,” Root chides, “a girl can’t reveal all her–” She cuts off abruptly as Shaw flicks her still-sensitive clit.

“ _What did you do.”_

Root sighs dramatically and pulls Shaw close. “If you must know, I wasn’t talking to Lionel at all,” she whispers conspiratorially. “ _She_ was.”

Of fucking course. Glowering, Shaw wriggles away, knowing full well that she looks like a grumpy five-year-old. “You cheated.”

“All’s fair in love and war, Sweetie,” Root purrs. “Besides, you never said that cheating wasn’t allowed.”

Shaw rolls her eyes heavenward. Really, she should have seen this coming.

Her momentary distraction, however, is enough for Root to flip them over; she straddles Shaw’s waist, inordinately smug, and splays her fingers over Shaw’s abs. “Time for the winner to reap her reward, don’t you think?” she says.

“Ugh, fine. Less gloating and more doing then.”

Root chortles. Her hands trail down Shaw’s belly and settle on her upper thighs. “As you wish.”

Later, as Shaw grips the bedsheets and stares dazedly at the ceiling, she thinks she’s definitely won too.


	11. sugar, spice and everything nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Shaw takes care of a sick Root.   
> Fluff. Just pure fluff.

“Now, I’m not saying I told you so, but…”

Root sneezes violently into a tissue.

“…Yeah.” Shaw taps Root’s red nose. “I told you so.” Despite having been warned not to, Root insisted on snuggling with Shaw while the latter was sick, and is now paying the price for it.

“Make it go _away_ ,” Root whines. She wraps the thick, woolen blankets tightly around her and curls up like a hedgehog, her delicate frame still shuddering.

Shaw sits on the bed next to her and caresses her forehead. “Fever’s going down a bit at least,” she observes. “Have you taken your meds today?”

The response is a muffled whimper. Shaw takes that as a no.

She leans over the pitiful bundle that is Root, reaching for the pitcher of water on the bedside table. She pours some into a glass. Then she snags the Dayquil bottle and carefully measures 30 mL into medicine cup. “Come on,” Shaw says, patting what might be Root’s butt. “Up you get.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Root shifts into a passable upright position. The doleful expression on her face unmistakably says, _Do I have to?_

“Doctor’s orders, babe.”

Root heaves a sigh and, with a grimace, downs the medication. “Water doesn’t do much to mitigate that taste,” she grumbles as she flops back onto the pillows.

Shaw conceals a smile. “You’re such a five-year-old.”

As if to prove her point, Root sticks her tongue out, but there’s a flash of playfulness in her puffy eyes.

“Take a nap,” Shaw murmurs. “Think I know how to cheer you up.”

She steps into the hallway and whistles. In an instant, Bear drops his bone chew toy onto the shag rug and bounds toward her, determinedly standing on his rear legs as though trying to hug her. Shaw scratches his ears. “Look after her for a bit, will you?”

Bear _woofs_ obligingly and settles next to Root, who throws an arm over him – not unlike a child cuddling with a teddy bear. This time, Shaw grins unabashedly before shutting the door and making her way to the kitchen.

“Alright Siri,” Shaw says, cracking her knuckles, “hit me up with the best recipe for apple cinnamon oatmeal cookies that you can muster.”

“ _Anything for you, Sameen,”_ the Machine chirps. Seconds later, Shaw’s phone pings with a message from Her. 

“Atta girl,” Shaw says. “Let’s see...1 ¼ cups of all-purpose flour, 1 ¼ cups rolled old fashioned oats, a ½ teaspoon of baking soda, a teaspoon of ground cinnamon, ¼ teaspoon of salt, ¾ of a cup of brown sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla extract…” Phone in one hand, Shaw rummages through the cupboards and begins to pull out the ingredients, setting them on the counter.

She wanders over to the fridge and opens it absent-mindedly. “Half a cup of unsalted butter, an egg, 2 teaspoons of lemon juice…”

At last, Shaw rounds on the glass fruit bowl. “And a cup of chopped Granny Smith apples.” She dons an apron, refusing to get flour on her formal black shirt (the one without bullet holes). “Let’s get to work.”

“ _You’re such a doting girlfriend, Sameen_ ,” the Machine says nonchalantly as Shaw whisks flour, oats, cinnamon, baking soda and salt together. _“It’s rather endearing._ ”

Shaw huffs. “We’re not girlfriends,” she says. She combines the butter and brown sugar in another bowl, and cracks an egg against it, letting the yolk trickle downward. Then, she mixes in the vanilla extract.

“ _No? What is she then?”_  

_Did Root put Her up to this?_ “She’s my…” Shaw pauses. She buys herself time by busily scraping the contents of her flour mixture into the bowl with the egg and vanilla extract, and folding in her apple slices.

Neither of them has ever made any effort to label this _thing_ that they have. They fight bad guys together, live together, dine together, fuck together – they survived a war together. “Girlfriend” would, she supposes, be the technical term to describe Root, but it sounds much too simple.

A long while passes before Shaw quietly replies, “She’s my person.”

The Machine says nothing more, but Shaw’s phone hums reassuringly in her pocket, and she thinks She would be smiling if She could.

It’ll take half an hour for the cookies to bake and for the laundry to be ready to come out of the dryer. Shaw decides to make a classic apple cider in the meantime. She combines five cups of apple juice, ½ a teaspoon of cinnamon and a ¼ teaspoon of nutmeg into a small pot, and stirs the mixture as it simmers on medium heat.

Once the cider is ready, she takes out two glass mugs and pours a generous amount into each, garnishing them with an apple slice and a stick of cinnamon.

“Those look cute,” Root says as she and Bear pad into the kitchen. She stops in her tracks and takes in Shaw’s apron, beaming fondly. “Aww Sam, were you baking something? That’s so _sweet._ No wonder Bear was so eager to come here.”

“Yeah, should be done any second.”

“ _I helped!”_ the Machine chimes in.

The timer goes off then, and Shaw slips on oven mitts. The adoration in Root’s eyes somehow manages to intensify.

“Gotta say, I really like the baker look.”

Shaw opens the oven door and is greeted with steam and the tantalizing smell of the cookie batch. “I can tell. Bet you’re probably also starin’ at my ass right now.”

“It is my one true weakness,” Root agrees.

Shaw accidentally-on-purpose bends just slightly more than necessary. To better extract the cookies, of course.

“Are those apple chunks I see?” Root squeals delightedly as Shaw sets the tray on the kitchen island. She begins to reach for one at the same time that Bear leans in to sniff at them hopefully, but Shaw shoos both of them away.

“Well, you know what they say,” Shaw says, unfazed, as she piles cookies onto two plates, “an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Root kisses Shaw’s cheek. “I want you to stay,” she whispers.

“I will,” Shaw says. “For as long as you want me to.” She bestows a plate and a mug upon Root and carries her own to the coffee table. “Be right back,” she says.

Shaw retrieves a blanket from the dryer (she’d deal with the rest of the laundry later), sits on the couch next to Root and enswathes them with it, while Bear lies down at their feet. She shoves a cookie into her mouth, nodding at the gooey, sugary goodness of it. “What do you want to watch?” she asks, remote in hand.

Root’s lips curve slowly into a smile, and the TV screen flickers to life. “This feature presentation is brought to us by Her.”

Shaw takes one look at the title card – _The Princess Bride_ – and groans. “We’ve watched this a _dozen_ times. You can recite the whole thing off by heart.”

“Shush, it’s starting,” Root says. “And it’s the perfect movie for sick people. The boy is sick and so am I.”

“The boy is a brat and so are you,” Shaw mutters under her breath.

Root elbows her. “You love me,” she coos.  

Shaw doesn’t say anything. Instead, she drapes an arm over Root’s shoulders, enjoying her company during this peaceful autumn afternoon.


	12. desiderium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoot + waiting/Shoot + holidays 
> 
> For hufflepufflovespizza, who worked hard to coordinate the Shoot Secret Santa event on Tumblr and is just a wonderful person in general.

_9.5 out of 10,_ Shaw notes as a pug wearing a Santa hat scampers past her, diving headfirst into a snowbank with its little feet waggling in the air. A mortified teenager rushes to the dog’s rescue and carries it away on his shoulder. _Dumb as a box of rocks, but still cute._

Another bark to her left catches her attention, and she turns to find a corgi in a reindeer suit tramping through a patch of somewhat unperturbed snow, leaving tiny paw-prints in its wake. A child no older than 5 waddles after it, his delighted giggles ringing clearly amidst the bustle in the district.

_11 out of 10. Obviously. Dasher looks dashing and will be a good helper to Santa Paws_. (Shaw mentally high-fives herself for the jokes.) _Costume’s practical and cozy. Needs to be available in Bear’s size. Brownie points for taking care of a tiny human. Four for you reindog, you go reindog._

Shaw pauses her observation to pull her hood over her beanie. It’s snowing in earnest now: light, fluffy flakes artistically drape everything in the marketplace, from the streetlights and the wreaths that adorn them, to the enormous, ornate Christmas tree in the centre of the cobblestone square.

The resultant scene is as pretty as the holiday cards from previous numbers that have been mysteriously making their way to the vending machine guarding their subway hideout. The envelopes have been discarded, and the cards are aligned in neat rows behind the glass. If Shaw had to guess, “Ernest Thornhill” was behind the deliveries.

Other cards addressed specifically to Shaw have been pouring into the safehouse, but in lieu of _Season’s Greetings_ and _Warm Wishes for the Holidays_ , these ones bear terrible pickup lines:

_Let’s be naughty together and save Santa the trip._

_If your left leg is Thanksgiving and your right leg is Christmas, can I visit you between the holidays?_

_We don’t have to wait until Boxing Day for clothes to be 100% off._

_Girl, are you a Christmas tree? Because I would climb that._

That last card was accompanied by one that said:

_Are you looking for a tree topper? Because I’ve been told I’m a star on top._  

Shaw has a pretty good idea of who they’re from. And perhaps it’s a mark of how intensely the sender misses her that the lewd notes have gradually given way to simpler, more melancholy ones that read like confessions: _All I want for Christmas is you._

_Then come home already_ , Shaw thinks resignedly.

Which brings her back to her present predicament of trying to while away the time. A small commotion catches her eye; she hones in on a fluffy golden doodle puppy entangled in fairy lights that had minutes ago embellished a tree. Shaw snaps a photo, admiring the play of the lights against the dog’s fur as well as the stunning red and gold bokeh effect in the background.

“13 out of 10,” Shaw remarks. The score applies to both her unparalleled photography skills and the puppy. Dogs wrapped in fairy lights is a quality aesthetic; more beautiful, indeed, than people putting fairy lights on their houses in a pathetic bid to outdo their neighbours.

There’s a huff of laughter behind her. “13 out of 10? Seriously, Shaw? Did you even rate any dogs below a 9?” Reese asks.

To his credit, he doesn’t quail under the piercing don’t-fuck-with-me glare that Shaw fixes upon him, evidently having received enough of such looks to have grown habituated to them. “They’re good dogs, John,” Shaw deadpans.

A demi-smile. “Not as good as Bear though, I imagine.”

“ _No one_ is as good as Bear,” Shaw declares. “But they’re nice to look at while I’m freezing my ass off out here.”  

“Brought something to help with that.”  

“Better not have peppermint.” Really, Shaw doesn’t know why Root likes peppermint in her winter beverages so much, but granted, it does make her kisses taste sweeter.

“’Course not. It’s a classic hot chocolate.” Reese dusts snow off the bench and settles next to Shaw with his mochaccino. “Did ask for a bunch of marshmallows though. Just the way you like it.”

Shaw puts her phone away and takes a sip. The drink is velvety, rich and sweet – pure bliss in a cardboard cup. “You did well,” Shaw says with an approving nod. She’d have to pay this Jacques Torres place another several visits sometime.

“So I was thinking…”

“That’s new.”

“…we should get a tree,” Reese finishes, as if uninterrupted.

“You’re a real sap John.”

He shrugs innocently. “Just thought it would spruce up the subway.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She grudgingly admits that Reese’s pun is better (worse) than hers. “Did you find anything good for Zoe?”

“Nothing useful that would meet her expensive taste.” He grimaces. “Most of the merch around here is religiously themed or for tourists. I asked Root to get something during her travels though, so…”

Shaw snorts. “You trust her to do that?”

A shadow crosses Reese’s face as he realizes, with horror, the kinds of gifts that Root would deem appropriate.

“And anyway,” Shaw continues, “now you’re going to owe her a favour, and she won’t let you forget it.”

 Reese closes his eyes and slumps a little on the bench. Shaw wonders if she broke him. She thinks she sees his soul leave his body and vanish into the night.

Oops.

Shaw punches him playfully and leans over to toss her empty cup in the garbage can. Her gaze lingers on a couple – two women, probably in their 30s, gloved fingers entwined, sharing a large gingerbread cookie.

“You’re pining,” Reese murmurs. Apparently, he’s snapped out of his trance.

“Thought we were done with puns.” Shaw carefully avoids eye contact, but she can feel Reese regarding her.

“Wasn’t a pun,” he says gently. “She’s coming.”

Shaw envisions Root’s reaction to that and bites back a smile.

“I mean she’ll be here soon,” he quickly amends.

“Yeah, well…” Shaw kicks at the snow. “She’s late.” _Really_ late. Root’s train should’ve arrived 2 hours ago.

“Probably just got stalled somewhere. Tons of people are travelling for the holidays.”

“Then why hasn’t she or the Machine contacted us?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Reese says. “But Root’s tough. She can handle herself.”

Shaw doesn’t respond. Reese has never been the one getting woken up at 3am by a half-dead, bedraggled Root. He’s never had to catch her as she fainted from exhaustion and blood loss. He’s never had to tend to her near-fatal bullet wounds.

Reese is unaware of how fragile Root really is.

“Come on Shaw.” Reese nods in the direction of a Jack Russell wearing a green Christmas sweater. “Think that one’s a 9.”

“Not really in the mood anymore.”

Shaw doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting in silence, statuesque, when a loud horn snaps her out of her worried reverie. She springs off the bench and strides towards the train platform, paying little heed to Reese muttering something along the lines of “Must be hers” behind her.

Throngs of passengers – most of whom tower over Shaw – mill about, trying to reclaim their luggage and reunite with their own loved ones. Shaw sighs wearily. It won’t be easy finding the one person she wants to see the most among them.

“Look,” Reese says, and Shaw has never been more thankful for his absurd tallness – until she sees the smirk slowly replacing his stoic demeanour.

Through the steam of the engine and the puffs of breath fogging the air, Shaw notices a heart with an arrow going through it drawn on a window of the train. _R + S_ is inscribed within it.

“I think we found her,” Reese says, much too cheerfully.

“Shut up John.”

“Hey kids,” Root calls as she walks toward them, “did you miss me?”

Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. Soon, Shaw thinks, they’ll be flushed from the hot bubblebath they’ll share. And the subsequent naughty activities they’ll engage in.

“’Bout damn time you arrived,” Shaw chides.

“Sorry I’m late,” Root says. “There was an incident on the train – some walnut was trying to kill a family and rob them – and in the process of smashing said walnut’s head, I broke my phone. Anyway…” Root reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small item. “Got you something for Zoe, John. Lipstick stun gun, with a built-in flashlight and laser.”

“Huh. That’s…actually perfect. Thanks Root,” Reese says. “Thank goodness,” he mutters under his breath.

“Why John?” Root bestows a creepy grin upon him – the kind that typically precedes murder. “What did you _think_ I would get?”

“Never mind him,” Shaw interjects. “What did you get for me?”

“Oh sweetie. My presence is your present.” Root leans closer and breathes into Shaw’s ear, “I suppose you’ll have to unwrap me when we get home. And then you’ll find your _other_ present.”

“You know I think I’ll just, uh, head off now and go buy a tree for us.” Reese hastens away.

“Good to know he can still run even though he’s been eating so many holiday treats lately,” Root chuckles. “Want to get out of here too?”

Shaw smiles. “Thought you’d never ask.”

And with that, she takes Root’s hand and begins to lead the way home.

She has a present to unwrap, after all.


	13. petals on a wet, black bough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Shoot + rain 
> 
> I wrote this rather quickly. It's been a long time since I last wrote anything at all, and I just wanted to practise a bit. Title comes from Ezra Pound's poem, "In a Station of the Metro."

_Splash!_

A geyser of water shoots into the air, intermingling with the rain cascading from the heavens. You are vaguely aware of a dirty look being shot your way, but pay your puddle-spattered victim no heed as you continue to tear down the sidewalk, seemingly fleeing from some unknown terror.

And yet, this scene is oddly familiar to you. Faces fade in out of focus amidst the torrential downpour, like projections of your subconscious – like a phantasmagoria.

You remember, or you dream. You are not sure.

There’s a roaring in your ears, not from the thunder.

Your vision is fogging, not from sheets of rain.

The sky, indistinguishable from slabs of industrial steel, weighs oppressively upon you, threatening to crush you into the cement.

You are overwhelmed by claustrophobia. You freeze momentarily in the middle of the sidewalk, your breathing frenetic. Then, you veer sharply to the left, weaving haphazardly down the roads.

It isn’t until you find yourself at Lilac Walk in Central Park that you finally slow down.  

The face that greets you there is the one that has been the subject – the sole focus – of your dreams. Somehow, your legs brought you here to her of their own accord. Somehow, you know that she has been your destination all along.

Her cheeks are the delicate shade of pink of the sakuras that adorn the tree against which she leans – the only splotches of colour against the hoary landscape.

Root always did add vibrancy to your world.

She affectionately brushes away a rivulet of rainwater and sweat from your cheek. A sudden warmth blossoms on your skin at her touch, branching rapidly across your face and along your body. Rain patters innocuously against the umbrella with which she shields you: now it sounds like a lullaby.

You cradle her hand with your own, partially covered by the sleeve of your sweater. Petrichor and the scent of fresh blossoms cling to her skin.

She smiles, places a kiss your lips.  Its chasteness takes you by surprise – you had expected her to take a leaf out of _The Notebook_. But your lover is unpredictable, and that is how you know that she is yours. She simultaneously keeps you on your toes and rooted in the ground.

Smile widening, she tugs suggestively at the drawstrings of your hoodie, her intentions clear.

You smile back. Hands clasped, a new spring in your step, you make your way to the metro station together, homebound.


	14. hourglass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt meme #55](http://ariyah-v.tumblr.com/post/162362619809/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you): “Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?” (I changed the prompt a little bit to fit with some of the other chapters in this collection.)

_ Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, _

_ So do our minutes hasten to their end. _

Shakespeare, Sonnet 60 

* 

You never thought you’d make it back here. Or rather, you never dared believe. The future is so uncertain, so ever-changing, that you cannot allow yourself to dwell on such trivial things as hopes and dreams - not for yourself, anyway. 

A clack emanating from the living room woke you one night, and you found Root planted in front of her laptop, the screen of which was filled with images of sunsets and oceans, palm trees and sand. In the dim light, you could see the plea in her eyes. Root, after all, still had hopes and dreams, and who were you to dash them? 

What you didn’t expect was to feel something akin to genuine enthusiasm at the idea of a vacation - and not just because of the way Root’s entire countenance lit up when you told her you’d teamed up with the Machine to get a beach in Miami all to yourselves for a few days. You were never really one to reminisce, but you found yourself replaying the time that you and Root had sat side by side at a bar, sipping fruity cocktails while the bodies of your enemies lay at your feet. Root maintained that it was your first real date. You realized it was the first time you realized you cared about her, beyond a sense of camaraderie. 

And so it is that your unbidden wave of nostalgia has given way to the waves presently lapping upon the shoreline. As the sun slinks into a slumber, it gilds the beach; dapples Root in gold and cerise; striates her hair. 

She glances over at you, as if feeling your gaze upon her. Her baggy white T-shirt now adheres to the contours of her body. You can see her breasts right through the soaked fabric and flush with lust. Root grins cheekily at you, and you shake your head minutely before she can crack a joke about you being “high and dry.” She makes a  _ you’re no fun _ face at you before returning her attention to Bear, who bounds exuberantly toward her with a stick in his mouth. Peals of her laughter fill the air as Bear shakes his fur, spraying her. 

A smile tugs at your lips. You lean back in your lawn chair and close your eyes, yearning to commit the vivacity of this moment to memory. 

The briny air fills your nostrils and gushes into your lungs, erasing all traces of tension in your body. You let the light, serotinal breeze brush your cheeks; listen to the susurrus of the vibrant yellow and purple wildflowers swaying in its wake. 

You welcome the palpable serenity of your surroundings. It’s much quieter out here now that the parakeets and macaws have returned to their nests. 

Still though, a skein of seagulls circle over the sea.  _ Time’s up! Time’s up!  _ they seem to be squawking. 

Unease begins to crawl into your skin and gnaw its way to your heart, which in turn beats more frantically. You fall prey to that atavistic tendency of touching the skin near your mastoid process. 

You thought you’d eradicated that urge. 

You’re losing control. 

You try to remind yourself that the ominous squawks are just noises in the system - it does not behoove you to include them in this symphony you’re composing. But it’s already too late: the thought has invaded your mind. 

It is cruelly ironic that you spent decades unwillingly wandering in a dream world, yet in reality, your time is slipping away. Somehow, hours have elided into seconds: the sky’s pink hues are deepening into shades of purple as the vestiges of day fade into night. Soon, Root will be consumed by the darkness. 

You were a woman of action. Now you are trammeled by panic. 

Or maybe you have never really been in control. 

Root and the Machine say humans have free will though, and you believe them, right? You can make a choice, and at this moment, you need to  _ choose _ to rein in your fears. 

Inhale for three seconds...exhale for five. Repeat: inhale for three seconds...exhale for five. 

Your breaths fall in tandem with the cadence of the ocean, and for a while, that assuages you. However, tranquility, like life itself, is ephemeral. Each ebb of the tide carries away with it your intrusive thoughts. The flow brings them right back. And the longer you listen to the waves’ ebb and flow, the more they sound like summer’s dying gasps.   

The ocean is a tricky temptress: first it lures people with its beauty and mystique, then it engulfs their sandcastles and footprints - mementos of their time spent by its side - until all traces of these people are erased. They may as well have ceased to exist. 

Will you leave a mark on this world? Or will you, like the sandcastles and the footprints, like the day, simply fade away when your time runs out? 

You bury your toes in the sand resolutely, as though to make your mark. It is then that you are reminded that you need to ground yourself to cope, that perhaps this should have been your aim during your meditations from earlier. But the attempt to focus on sights and sounds and sensations was futile anyway; you’ve become unmoored as a result. 

Crescent-shaped indentations riddle your arms as you dig your nails into them, clawing at the intensifying unease that has persistently been prickling under your skin. 

Two wet, sandy paws unexpectedly land on your thighs, and, slightly startled, your eyes fly open. 

“Oh hey buddy,” you say, scratching Bear’s ears. Bear’s tongue lolls out and he pants in obvious appreciation of the petting. 

Root hovers behind you. “Hey to you too, sweetie,” she says. She takes your face in her hands and kisses you upside-down. You cup her jaw with one hand and try to cover Bear’s eyes with the other. He’s too innocent to see this. 

Root chuckles into the kiss and walks around the chair. Bear reluctantly trots away, opting to play with his rubber bone instead, as Root seats herself onto your lap, straddling you. Your hands instinctively bracket her hips, and you let her warm breath wash over you. 

This, you think, might be just what you needed. A distraction. A respite. 

“We’ve been having a really good time out here,” Root murmurs. “Think I owe you a thank-you.” She surges forward, not waiting for a reply, and captures your lips in an insistent kiss. She urges your mouth open with her tongue and moans when you squeeze her ass. 

She’s halfway through tugging her drenched shirt off when your stomach grumbles embarrassingly. 

Root bites back a laugh. “Alright. Dinner first. Then,” she pecks your lips again, “dessert.” 

You find yourselves sprawled on a checkered blanket under the expanse of the sky stained, marble-like, in navy and violet. Encircled by the warm glow of lanterns, you and Root feast on sweet and spicy chicken, pasta salad with asparagus and lemon, and white wine, a meal that you prepared together in your beach house. Bear, meanwhile, contentedly munches on his kibble, though every now and then, he pouts at your chicken. 

“So, our second post-war date is a picnic on the beach under the stars,” Root muses. She sidles closer to you and playfully puts her hand on your forehead. “Have you swallowed a romance novel? Should I call a doctor?” 

“This isn’t a date. It’s a vacation.” 

“A honeymoon, then.” Root winks.  

You flick a small seashell at her. She catches it, giggling, and stows it in the pocket of her (very short) shorts. 

After clearing away the plates, you lie down on the blanket, staring heavenward. Root lies next to you and takes your hand in hers. “Want to go inside?” she asks. 

“Let’s stay out here for a while.” 

The silence is inundated by the chirping of crickets. 

“I noticed you clutching your arms earlier,” Root notes quietly. “Looked like you were about to curl up in a tiny ball.” 

She’s watching you, gauging your reaction. You say nothing. 

“I didn’t want to bring it up earlier. I was...I guess I was hoping you’d tell me about it.” 

You glance at her and then quickly avert your gaze.

“Sameen.” Root turns your face towards hers and caresses your ear. “Were you thinking about the simulations?” 

“No,” you reply at last. “It was just…” Articulating your thoughts has never been your strong suit, particularly when the thought in question is still inchoate in the recesses of your mind. “I had a bit of a panic attack,” you admit. 

“Do you know what triggered it?” 

You sigh. “I was, uh, trying to cling to a moment, and then my thoughts went...awry.” 

“Remember what we talked about,” Root says, her voice dulcet. “Don’t cling to or run away from a moment. Just experience it.”

“But what if there are no more good moments like that afterward?” 

Root studies you. “Dwelling on what could, might or will happen is up to the Machine and by proxy, me.” She tucks one of your bangs behind your ear lovingly. “Take life one day at a time. I know there’s no guarantee that we’ll...that we’ve got much time, but we can still make the best of what we have...can’t we?”

“Do you ever think about whether or not we’ll leave some sort of, I dunno,  _ imprint _ , behind?” 

Root looks at you, puzzled. 

“I was thinking earlier about, uh, how the ocean washes all our things away.” 

“Hm.” 

“It...yeah, it’s stupid. I-” 

“No it’s not,” Root says thoughtfully. She reaches into her pocket and hands something over to you. “It’s sea glass. I like to collect it when I visit beaches around the world.”

The sea glass is turquoise and smooth. You like the way it feels, and you clasp it in your palm. 

“Think of it this way: the ocean holds onto our things, waiting until they can be rediscovered by worthy eyes,” Root says. “That sea glass was once a bottle. Over time, the sea eroded it, turned it into something beautiful, and let it wash ashore. Until I found it.” She smiles and rubs her thumb along your hand. “The ocean helped immortalize that bottle so it could leave an imprint behind. You’ve already left an imprint on so many people, Sameen.” 

“Thanks Root.” 

You make to give the sea glass back to her, but she closes your hand around it. “Keep it. It can help ground you. Now,” she pulls you up beside her, “come with me.” 

“Where to?” 

“The ocean, silly! You spent so much time worrying about it that you barely got to enjoy it today.” 

You smile at her. 

Hand in hand, you and Root wade knee-deep into the sea together and stand before the moon, both in deference and defiance, as Bear watches from the shore. 


	15. just desserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "It's 3 in the morning."
> 
> Set a little after 4x05.

Shaw has not and never will forget the first time that Root broke into her apartment. That rather unpleasant encounter culminated in Shaw being tased, kidnapped, and zip-tied to a steering wheel, and the embarrassment of it is now seared into her brain.

“Sameen Grey” unfortunately doesn’t make enough to upgrade the security of her shitty apartment to her standards, but she’s at least got a deadbolt on her door now, and she sleeps with her trusty USP Compact and a knife under her pillow.

Root is nonetheless persistent. Shaw supposes she ought to be used to the woman’s sporadic home invasions, but Root always chooses to drop by at the most inconvenient times.

Like in the dead of night.

Shaw groans irritably as the window creaks open, and an all-too-familiar figure shrouded in shadows gracefully climbs in. “What the fuck Root, it’s -” she glances blearily at her alarm clock - “3 in the morning. You keep doing this, and I may shoot you someday.”

“What can I say sweetie? You haven’t given me a key yet, so of course I have to resort to these crude tactics.”  

Even in the darkness, Shaw can make out Root’s puppy pout.

“Besides, if you do kiss me with a bullet -” (Shaw rolls her eyes) - “then I’d have the pleasure of being stitched up by you again,” Root continues daintily.

Sighing, Shaw kicks off her blankets, turns on her bedside lamp, and rubs her eyes. “That what this is about? You got shot again?”

“Nope!”

Root’s entirely too cheerful at this godless hour.

“Do we have a number or something?”

“Wrong again.”

“So,” Shaw says slowly, still rather disoriented. “You’re not dying and no one else is about to either. Then what the hell’s so urgent?”

Root smiles and seats herself on the edge of Shaw’s bed. “I just thought it would be nice for the two of us to get some ice cream.”

Shaw stares. “Ice cream.”

Root nods, her eyes dancing in the lamplight.

“At 3am.”

“I know a good parlour that’s open 24-7.”

There’s a pause as Shaw considers the pros and cons of this suggestion. If she agrees, Root will either be elated or insufferable or both. She can probably tolerate that, as she _would_ get ice cream out of it. Plus, Root is unlikely to leave until she agrees, and anyway, she’s already awake.

“Fine.”

Shaw swears the warmth radiating from Root’s grin could melt all the ice cream in the world.

*

“Did you really come all this way just to have ice cream with me?” Shaw asks.

They’re seated side by side on a bench in an empty park with their ice cream cones in hand - mint chocolate chip for Root and rocky road for Shaw. The childlike innocence of the moment does not escape Shaw, though she finds it inconceivable that such a moment could possibly exist while they’re in the midst of an AI war.

“Does there have to be a higher purpose?” Root asks in amusement.

Shaw shrugs. “Just thought there’d be more to it. You’re always on some mission or other with your robot girlfriend.”

Her tone ends up sounding more accusatory than intended, and Root looks inordinately pleased. “Why Sameen,” she coos, “are you jealous?”

Shaw grunts noncommittally.

Root’s gaze softens and she smiles and smiles fondly at Shaw. “Maybe,” she admits, as she takes a rather long, lewd lick of her ice cream, “I just wanted to spend some time with you instead.” 

*

They barely make it back to Shaw’s apartment.

Lips locked in a ferocious kiss, hands tangled in each other’s hair and clothes, they stumble out the elevator and down the hallway until they manage to reach Shaw’s door. Shaw fumbles for her key and tries to jam it in the lock. It takes her a few tries to get it right; Root, meanwhile, impatiently slides her hand under Shaw’s tanktop and begins yanking it off.

The door finally opens just as Shaw’s shirt comes off entirely. Shaw pushes Root in first, shutting the door behind her with her foot. She strips Root of her jacket, T-shirt and jeans swiftly, and they collapse onto the bed.

Root props herself on her elbows, watching dazedly as Shaw pulls her underwear down and hooks her slender legs over Shaw’s shoulders.

Their eyes meet for a brief, electric second. Then Shaw’s mouth is on Root. 

*

Ten minutes after their third round, Root gets up and begins to search for her clothes.

“I’m insulted that your legs still work. Come back here, let me do you again.”

Root chuckles. “Sorry Sameen, duty calls. Though I will say I’d much rather be answering that booty call instead.”

Shaw frowns. “Thought you said you didn’t have a mission tonight.”

“She wants me on a plane to Germany in a couple of hours.” Root locates her leather jacket and dons it, flipping her hair over the back of the collar. “I...had a really good time tonight,” she says quietly.

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence as they each contemplate what more to say to the other.

“Well, guess I should head out,” Root announces.

“Wait.” Shaw hops out of bed and withdraws something from the drawer of her bedside table. “Take this and stop hauling your dumb ass through my window.”

Root’s jaw drops in surprise. She accepts the key and swallows hard, blinking back tears.

Shaw freezes when Root throws her arms around her, and awkwardly pats Root’s back. “I mean, it’s just more practical.”

Root laughs. “It is. Thank you.”

She gives Shaw one last look, and then she’s gone, leaving Shaw feeling a strange sense of emptiness.  


End file.
